


just think happy thoughts?

by Trojie



Series: Bandom Bingo 2017 [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Crack, Double Penetration, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M, Tour Bus Sex, Warped Tour 2005, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 12:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10218686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: In which Frank Iero grows wings, because apparently that kind of shit just happens on Warped Tour.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



> For my very favourite bad influence <3
> 
> Also for the prompt _wingfic_ on my Bandom Bingo 2017 card.

'All I'm saying is, this is pretty minor.' 

Frank's always been a bit in awe of how cool Brian can be under pressure, but this is stretching it, even for him. 

'How is this minor?' he demands, kicking his heels against the kitchenette cupboard doors. He probably shouldn't be sitting on the countertop but it's not like hygiene has been a fixture of this bus in the past. 'I have some, y'know, fucking extra limbs I definitely didn't have this morning. It's not just like I got a zit or something.'

'If you still have corporeal form in this dimension, it's minor,' says Brian calmly. 'Two years ago a hell-portal opened up on the second stage. We lost, like, four techs before anyone realised what was going on. The last one didn't reappear til we hit that same town again last year.' Bob, across the table, snorts like it's a cherished memory, and nods.

Brian takes another drag off his cigarette as if he's some jaded noir detective. 'It's Warped, Frankie. Shit happens on Warped.'

'I have wings. I can -' Frank shuts up in a hurry, but not fast enough. 

Gerard and Mikey simultaneously break into _I believe I can fly_.

'I hate both of you motherfuckers,' Frank growls. 

'I told you not to get new ink on Warped, bro,' says Bob. 'I warned you.'

'I thought you were worried I'd get it infected and get blood poisoning!' Frank protests. 'And I told you, dude, I'm not Gerard. I shower!'

'You shouldn't actually be able to fly, though,' says Ray. He's been quiet up til now, brow furrowed in serious contemplation, unlike the rest of the assholes Frank has to share a bus with. 'I mean, it's a question of power to weight ratios. Your wings just aren't _big_ enough, Frank.'

There's a perfectly silent moment in which Frank can hear every single 'it's not the size, it's what you do with it' joke being assembled in all the brains around him, and he snaps. Jumping down off the benchtop, he grabs his hoodie and his smokes and flips the bird at the bus at large. 'I'm out,' he says. 'Someone else can figure out what the hell is going on.'

***

He tries to find somewhere to hole up out of the wind to smoke, but he can't even fucking lean against a wall - not with these stupid goddamn extra bones sticking out of his back. They hurt if he puts his weight on them, okay, like when you lean back on your arms and your elbows are twisted the wrong way. 

He carefully flexes them under his hoodie, and scowls down at his feet, cupping his hands around to try and shield his cigarette and lighter while he gets the fuckin' thing actually lit. They ache, in the joints of them, and the big muscles that slope down from … whatever the fuck you call a bird's elbow, he guesses, to join his back. 

They probably ache because yesterday they were the start of a fucking epic full back piece, which he'd been planning for months, okay, and which he spent hours in a goddamn chair for, and then today he figured it would be fun to take a running jump off Bob's riser in the middle of their set, only he got his foot caught in a lead and would have broken his fucking neck if he hadn't … flown. 

Like, full-on Archangel-from-the-X-men-styles with wings busting out from his back. As if he wasn't already low enough on fucking t-shirts this tour. 

(Frank's aware that he's cranky, but he's got cramp in his _two new limbs_ and his entire band are assholes, and seriously he's already down to wearing his shirts inside out. He hates Warped Tour.)

Gerard materialises next to him with two cups of coffee and a puppydog expression. He hands Frank one of the cups. 'Mikey's texting Pete,' he says, which, so?

'Mikey's been texting Pete every waking second for the last three weeks,' Frank points out, taking the coffee before Gerard can decide actually he needs both of them and take it back. 'But thanks for the update.'

'About your, y'know, little problem,' says Gerard huffily. 

'Why would Pete know anything? And thank you so much for your phrasing there, by the way. You make it sound like erectile dysfunction. Which I am not suffering from,' Frank adds, just in case the collective musical press are lurking in the shrubbery with dictaphones.

Gerard gives Frank a Look. 'Have you met Pete Wentz?'

'He's a bass player, Gerard, not a fucking wizard, I'm not sure tattoos coming to life are really his bag.'

'You'd be surprised,' says Gerard darkly. 'Anyway. We're on the case.'

Frank takes a mouthful of coffee. 'I can't believe this is my life,' he says. 

'Why, because you suddenly grew magical wings?'

'No, because my band, including our manager, who I thought was a rational goddamn human being, think that the best thing to do when one of us grows magical wings is to text fucking _Fall Out Boy_.'

'Wow, sounds like Big Bird got out of the nest on the wrong side this morning,' says Gerard, and leaps away like he assumes Frank is going to smack him. 

But Frank doesn't have the energy to actually enact violence. 'I will kill you and leave the pieces in Mikey's bunk,' he says, but his heart isn't in it. 

'Aw, Frankie,' says Gerard, creeping back to put his arm around Frank's shoulder. 'Cheer up. They're kickass wings, y'know? We can work it into your whole look, it'll be awesome. I wonder if you can dye feathers. Or streak them, or something.'

'I'm not cutting holes in all my shirts for the band aesthetic,' says Frank, leaning into Gerard's hug and letting himself be steered back to the bus. 'Not even for you.'

***

'Pete says he hasn't heard of people growing wings before, but he knows a guy,' says Mikey, without looking up from his phone, when Gerard pushes Frank through the door of the bus. Everyone else seems to have fucked off, which suits Frank just fine. He's not in the mood for the exciting problem-solving attempts of the MCR Ways and Means Committee. 

'I just bet he does,' says Frank sourly, unwilling to let go of this sulk, because he earned it fair and fucking square. But he flops on the sofa next to Mikey anyway, and then winces.

'C'mere,' says Mikey, who has this incredible ability to be perfectly aware of everything around him even though he's blind as a bat and always texting. He loops one arm around Frank's shoulders and pulls him down. 'Can't lean on 'em, right?' he says.

'They hurt,' says Frank, sprawled face down across Mikey's lap. 'Not fair.'

Mikey's non-texting hand starts running gently back and forth between Frank's shoulders. Frank makes a noise he will deny til his dying day. Which might actually be today, because Mikey blinks after about thirty seconds and then puts his phone down and looks at Frank, or rather, at Frank's back. Frank cranes his head to try and see but all he does is hurt his neck.

'What? Is there something else back there? I can't see - is it bad?' Mikey doesn't say anything, just bites his lip. 'Mikeyway, you're freaking me out.'

'Take your shirt off,' Mikey says. 

Gerard is in the kitchenette, banging around doing something that doesn't sound gurgly enough to be coffee, but as soon as Mikey says _that_ the noises abruptly stop. 

'I hope you're going to make an honest woman out of me after you're done having your wicked way,' Frank grumbles, but he does as he's told. 'I mean, thanks to your brother and YouTube my mom's already convinced she isn't getting grandkids.'

Mikey doesn't reply to that, just presses Frank to lie back down again and he doesn't fight it, because Mikey's thighs are the most comfy bit of him and Frank is tired.

'Gee, you gotta come see this,' says Mikey.

Gerard surfaces with something that looks suspiciously like a sandwich, which he then puts in front of Frank, which is even more suspicious.

'I am actually dying, aren't I?' says Frank, sniffing the sandwich. 'You're going to have to get another guitarist, Toro can't survive alone, he's like one of those lovebirds, he'll pine -'

'That's _sick_ ,' says Gerard, and he touches Frank's wing softly, strokes up one of the long bones where the ache is worst. He says it like 'awesome' not like 'gross', although with Gerard you never can quite tell. 'I gotta get my sketchbook, okay, don't let him move.'

Mikey's resumed rubbing Frank's shoulders and the sandwich appears to be safe to eat even if Gerard made it, so Frank's prepared to stay here and wait for death, if that's what's happening.

'You're not dying, don't be stupid,' says Mikey. 'You just have, like, four shoulderblades now, that's all. It's weird.'

'No, what's fucking weird is how your response to that is to get your brother to draw me like one of his French girls.' Frank finishes the last mouthful of sandwich and takes great pleasure in wiping his mouth on Mikey's jeans. Mikey doesn't seem to notice. Frank starts to wonder how long he's been wearing the jeans.

'I respect you too much to objectify you like that, Frankie,' says Gerard, rematerialising. 'Plus I can't see your tits from this angle.' 

'Frank's rack's nothing to write home about,' Mikey points out, which is objectively true given Frank's chest is basically concave, but he feels a little offended. 'You've got a good view of his ass though,' Mikey adds. 

'Wake me up when the bus sinks,' says Frank, giving up.

***

Frank only zones back into his surroundings when Gerard touches him softly on the small of his back and says, 'hey, Frankie, can you - I need to see -' and then puts both hands on Frank's wings, sliding his fingers between Frank's feathers, half stroking and half gently pushing. 

Frank nearly has a coronary. Or an orgasm. Possibly both. He scrambles up Mikey like a cat up a tree until he's basically perched half over Mikey's shoulder and half on the back of the sofa. Mikey has to grab him to steady him, and his cellphone clatters to the floor in a rattle of plastic that startles the rest of the sleepiness out of Frank's system.

'What the fuck?' Gerard says from behind him, sounding alarmed. 'Oh my god, Frank, did I hurt you, are they still sore, I'm so sorry -'

'No, I - fuck,' says Frank, trying to breathe while his brain is sending off fucking fireworks down all his nerves. 'You didn't hurt me, I -'

'Um. Is there any chance we could have this conversation without your junk in my face?' asks Mikey, pulling at Frank til he slides back down to Mikey's lap. 

Frank's blush starts somewhere around the bottom of his ribs and marches up his body like an invading army. He buries his face in Mikey's shoulder and refuses to look back at Gerard. 'Sorry,' he says. 'Um. I should like -' _don't say 'jack off', Frank, don't say_ '- go. Somewhere? Else. Somewhere not here.'

'I wasn't complaining,' says Mikey. His grip tightens on Frank's waist, and Frank suddenly becomes aware of how low his jeans are riding right now, and how easily Mikey's fingertips slip underneath the edge of his waistband. 'Dude, you're so fucking hard.'

Mikey is not wrong. Frank may possibly be grinding against his thigh. 

'So it doesn't hurt if I do this?' Gerard asks, a lot closer than Frank remembers him being. And there's a slow, gentle stroke against the grain of the feathers on Frank's left wing that leaves him panting into Mikey's neck. 

'No,' he manages. 'Fuck. Are we - guys, is this seriously happening?'

Mikey gentles one hand through Frank's hair and pulls his face up to look at him. 'If you want it to.' Gerard is still, very very softly, petting Frank's wings, and Frank can feel how warm he is up against his bare back, like he's close. Like if Frank just let himself ease backwards he'd be in Gerard's arms. 

Frank's only fucking human, okay. He swallows hard and looks Mikey in the eye and says, 'We should probably find a bunk.'

Mikey's eyes shiver shut. 

'Yeah,' says Gerard. He gets up and wraps his arms around Frank's waist, pulls him to stand as well. Frank stumbles and his wings flare out as if that'll steady him - all it does is get the whole length of his fucking wingspan rubbing up against Gerard's body and make his dick impossibly fucking hard. 'Shit, Frankie,' Gerard murmurs. 'Wanna feel that against my skin. So fucking hot.' 

Frank makes a noise in the back of his throat. 'Fuck yeah,' he manages, leaning back against Gerard and flexing his wings over and over, feeling hedonistic in the best way, trying to get his hands behind him to grab onto the hem of Gerard's shirt so he can pull it off, and failing.

Gerard tugs at him, trying to get him to move. 'C'mon. Mikes?'

Mikey's on his feet already. They hustle Frank through to the bunks like he needs directing, or maybe like he's gonna freak out or something, but he's used up all his supply of freakout on the whole mysterious body changes thing, and like fuck he's gonna say no to something he's jerked off thinking about more times than he'd like to admit. By the time Gerard's pulling the curtain on his bunk open, Mikey's already half naked, has Frank back in his hold and they're kissing. It happens so fast Frank's head is spinning from it. Mikey kisses the way he plays bass - he finds the simplest possible thing that works and does it single-mindedly until your brain melts out your ears. 

'Mikey, stop,' says Gerard softly by Frank's ear. Frank protests weakly when Gerard worms his hands between their chests and pulls the two of them apart. 'Mikey, hey, seriously.' Mikey makes a tiny growling noise but he does stop chasing Frank's mouth. Gerard's hands slip between them, he's pressed up against Frank's back again, and Frank flexes his wings just to feel how they move against Gerard's shirt, fuck, why is he still wearing his fucking shirt? 

Frank's so caught up fretting about Gerard's shirt that he doesn't realise until Mikey's stepping out of them, kicking at the hem caught tight around his bony left ankle, that Gerard was undoing Mikey's pants, pushing his underwear down with them. Mikey pulls Frank close again, goes for his mouth again. Frank's brain goes on another holiday. He wraps his arms around Mikey's neck and licks softly at that plush, unfair lower lip til Mikey opens up for him and they can get back to where they were before. 

Fuck, Mikey Way can fucking kiss. 

There's movement around Frank's waist, and he looks down, thinking dizzily that Gerard is undoing his belt. But he's not. He's got his hand around Mikey's dick, working it slowly. 'Get on the bed, Mikes,' says Gerard. 

If he doesn't stop giving Mikey fucking _orders_ into Frank's ear, Frank's going to die. 

Mikey pulls away from the pair of them and slips into the bunk on his back, arm behind him on the pillow and other hand on his dick, like he's on display. Frank can feel the sly curve of Gerard's smile against his neck. 'Fuck, he's pretty,' he groans.

'I know,' says Gerard conspiratorially. 'How do you want him, Frankie?'

'Don't care,' says Frank, because he doesn't, because he's easy - easy for it any way it comes, easy for Gerard and the way he's clearly got a plan going on. 'Don't play like you don't have this choreographed, Gee,' he adds, twisting away from the sight of Mikey to grapple, finally, with that fucking shirt. He knows Gerard doesn't like showing skin but too fucking bad, Frank Iero does not do half-assed still-clothed married-people missionary position sex, and he definitely does not do it when he's having a threesome with two smokin' hot brothers. This is a fucking fantasy-porn scenario even before you add in the wings. Clothes have no place here.

Gerard's shirt gets tossed somewhere Frank doesn't care about and he goes for Gerard's fly. Gerard pulls his hands away. 'Nuh-uh, Frankie,' he says, giving him a little push. 'Lemme choreograph, if that's what you want.'

'Just tell me where you want me,' says Frank, like they're filming a music video, not having a sexcapade. He takes a step towards Mikey, then realises he's still wearing his pants, and grabs for his belt. 

'Just get up here, Frank,' says Mikey, reaching out for him. 'I can deal with that, dude, just like, come and let me fucking touch you, okay?' He pulls Frank into the bunk, straddling his lap, and gets his pants open in thirty seconds flat. 'Wanted to do this for way too fucking long,' he says almost to himself, and eases Frank's dick out of his underwear, pulls the whole lot, briefs, jeans and all, down to sit under his ass. Everything is on display - Frank's tattoos, his cock and balls, his hollow belly and scrawny thighs, everything, and he meets Mikey's eyes fiercely and straightens his back, dares him to make a comment. 

But Mikey runs his hands up Frank's legs and says, 'Jesus, you're fucking hot.' His eyes are blown in the low light back here in the bunks, away from the windows. He tugs Frank forward, strains up. 'Can I?' he says, breathing softly against Frank's dick. 'Gee, please. Can I?'

The shitty mattress dips - Frank sways, frozen in place by the promise of Mikey Way's fucking illegal mouth on his cock, unable to balance right - and then Gerard's hands land on his hips. 

'Go ahead, Mikey,' Gerard says. 'Just don't let him come yet, okay?'

Mikey licks Frank's cock, and Gerard hooks his face over Frank's shoulder. He leans softly into Frank's wings, puts warmth and pressure where they ache but doesn't let his weight press them down, and Frank's so into that, fuck, so into that careful constant touch, he shivers. 'He's good at that, isn't he?' Gerard says conversationally, and that's when Frank suddenly realises. 

'This … fuck, _fuck_ , Mikeyway - this isn't the first time you guys have -'

Gerard kisses Frank's cheek, slides his hands up Frank's body. 'Nope,' he says cheerfully. 'Why, Frankie? Does it bother you?' He thumbs Frank's nipple. Mikey's still just licking, soft and wet and a fucking tease.

'Fuck no,' Frank groans, wings fucking fluttering against Gerard's body. It feels the same as when you can't stop your leg jittering. 'Are you kidding me?'

'Told you,' says Mikey, sticky and warm against Frank's cock. 'Told you he'd be into it.'

Gerard reaches down and takes hold of Frank where he's twitching and hard and dripping, and nudges the head of his dick against Mikey's mouth. 'Yeah, yeah, you're fucking psychic. Shut up and suck him properly, will you?' he says, every inch the older brother right up to the point where Frank can _feel_ him get harder against Frank's ass as he watches Mikey open his throat and take Frank's dick straight down it. 

When Mikey's nose is practically touching Frank's belly, Gerard lets go, pushes Frank forward so Mikey can lie back down. 'Fuck his mouth,' Gerard says. He plants his hands on Frank's hips like he's gotta show him how, like Frank isn't halfway to doing it already. 'He likes it,' he adds. 'He really - fuck, Frankie, he _really_ likes it.'

Frank couldn't stop himself from doing it if he tried, not with the way Mikey and Gerard's hands are tangled over his skin, urging him on. He falls to his hands and knees, sort of - his hands end up on the wall of the bunk, up behind the pillow, what would be the bedhead if this wasn't a fucking coffin with a mattress in it, and his back arches without his say-so. 

Mikey's mouth is so hot, so fucking wet around him. Frank fucks down and down and down into it, and he knows he's going too hard, too desperate, but Mikey's clutching at him and he's so close, he's so fucking _close_ -

Gerard's hands close around the wide low-down joints of Frank's wings and Mikey's fingers suddenly wrap tight around the base of his cock and they yank him back together, out of Mikey's mouth, away from what feels like the very fucking precipice-edge of an orgasm. He twists from side to side, wracked with it, heart pounding blood he didn't know he still had in his fucking body, thought it was all in his dick, but they don't let go til he starts to settle, to feel the sweat dripping off him, to come back to himself. 

'That was close,' says Gerard into Frank's ear. 'Too close.'

'Fuckin' sadist,' Frank pants. 

'You know it.' Gerard doesn't sound sorry at all. He pushes Frank back down over Mikey, properly hands and knees this time, dick safely nowhere near Mikey's used-red mouth. 'Hold on to him, Mikey, I wanna try something.'

'You're in trouble now,' Mikey murmurs up at Frank, his eyes sparkling wickedly from underneath his straggly fringe and the glasses he's still wearing. Frank reaches up and fumbles them off him, tucks them away safe in the corner of the bunk, because Mikey's ability to see isn't something they can risk just because they're fucking bunkjumping, and also because Mikey doesn't need his glasses if Frank's kissing him, does he?

Mikey's sucking on Frank's lip ring when Gerard starts scratching his fingernails against the grain of Frank's feathers, and that's just not fucking fair. 

'Shit,' says Frank, jerking his hips against thin air. 'Gerard, Gee, I - _shit, dude_ you're gonna -'

'Oh my god, they're like a freaking hot button for you, aren't they?' Gerard says, and he sounds delighted and ruined and like he's already got off, all smoky and throaty and pleased. 'Fuck, Frank, they feel so good. Silky. Soft, like … I wonder what they'd feel like against my cock?'

Frank's laugh is half moan, because that's just typical Gerard - fucking stupid and gross and somehow crazy hot all at once. 'No rubbing your junk on my wings,' he says, and his voice doesn't sound sexy and orgasmic, it sounds like he smoked half a pack and downed three tequila shots and got kicked out of the bar into an alleyway at 3am. He's croaking. 'Just fuck me, dickbrain.'

Gerard's answer is to rub his _face_ on Frank's wings, to kiss the places where skin suddenly bursts out feathers, and Frank goes hot and cold with goosebumps all over his back. Gerard is licking, he's tugging on Frank's skin with his teeth, places where Frank knows there's tattoos, places where the strange new unfamiliar flesh and bone of the wings is jutting out, the sweat-wet hollow of Frank's back - his mouth is everywhere and it doesn't matter that nothing is touching Frank's dick, Frank is all the way back up to a hundred miles an hour.

'He really wants to make you come,' says Mikey softly, reaching up and petting Frank's face, touching his lower lip, the corner of his hanging-open mouth. 'He's got, like, a thing about it, making people come twice. But. Can you?' he asks. 'I mean, not everyone can.'

Frank's knees are going to give out. 'I can,' he grits out, because, well, he did once, okay, came twice in one round of fucking, and if it's ever gonna happen again it'll be like this, with these two. 'I mean -'

'We'll take care of you,' says Mikey. 'We'll get you there, Frank, I swear.'

Gerard breathes barely-there kisses up Frank's spine, to what feels like every knob of every bone, and then he strokes his hands firmly up Frank's wings. 'They're fucking gorgeous, y'know?' he says softly. 'Like an anatomy textbook. Like a fucking painting, Frankie, something Renaissance, an angel - no, fuck, a fucking da Vinci sketch, y'know, like the notebooks he did? Studies of birds in flight.'

He feels his way along the bones, tugs gently til Frank spreads himself out, and that feeling of being watched from both sides gets him right in his fucking cock, makes him spread his knees either side of Mikey's hips, too. 

'Wish I'd done more anatomy classes,' Gerard muses, tracing his fingers between feathers and along the taut skin underneath. Frank shivers. 'Did life drawing, but nothing like this. Wish I knew the names of the parts, Frank, wish I could do you fucking justice. I'd paint you, but fucked if I'm good enough to get like -' he buries his face in the nape of Frank's neck for a moment, like he's overwhelmed.

'The light,' Mikey finishes for him, wrapping his hands around Frank's hips. 'The way the light comes through, when you spread them out,' Mikey says, because Gerard is fumbling for something in the bedclothes and it's clear he's not gonna say anything else. 'That's what he wants to paint. Isn't it, Gee?'

Frank's breath is whining out of his nose, from between his lips, he's panting, because Gerard's hands are tangled in his feathers and Gerard's cock is leaving tiny, sticky-cool nudges against his skin when they bump together, and Mikey's a fucking wet dream come to life laid out underneath him. Frank hasn't come from nothing but overheated hope and fantasy since he was old enough to get a decent fake ID, but he might just fucking do it now, unload all over Mikey like a teenager.

Gerard's teeth find the soft place behind Frank's ear and scrape, catch, and his tongue flicks out and Frank's _gone_ , head caved in and nothing but fucking fire left inside him. 

When he looks up, bleary-eyed and hollow, Mikey's teasing two fingers through the shine of Frank's come all over his fucking throat, and Gerard's sliding his hands over Frank's ass, spreading him. 'Let go, Frankie,' says Gerard softly. 'Gonna fuck you now, yeah? C'mon, down.' 

Mikey pulls Frank til he's sprawled all over Mikey's rail-thin chest, dazed and fucking confused and feeling so good, like sex is some kind of contact high. He zones out again, mumbling at Mikey's skin, kissing him, licking up his own come and getting petted and getting fingered and just - he feels so warm. So looked after, y'know?

'Yeah, I know,' says Mikey softly. He cards his fingernails through Frank's hair. 'You deserve a little looking after, Frank. Wish you'd let us more often.'

'Hey, lift up, Frankie,' says Gerard before Frank can find a way to respond to that. Frank does, hitches his hips high, his ass feeling wet and worked over and ready, and he figures Gerard's gonna do it, finally gonna fuck him after, fuck, _years_ of promises he made on stage and never fucking kept, but Gerard just pushes him forward a little bit and reaches under him and - oh, oh fuck, that's _Mikey_ -

'Yeah, Frank,' Mikey breathes. 'That's me. But it's gonna be both of us in a minute. If you want.'

Frank's not seventeen any more, he shouldn't be able to get this hard again so soon. But he is. He rocks down onto Mikey's dick, taking it increment by increment.

'Fuck yes I fucking want,' he says, and when Gerard's sloppy fingers press against his stuffed-full hole, against where Mikey's cock has him stretched out already, he moans. 'Oh my god -'

'Shh, hey,' says Gerard. 'I got you.'

Frank's head is a mess of sensation from all the competing nerve endings going off like fucking fire-alarms and, and look, okay, there's no way past it, Frank's not the biggest dude around. He can admit it. He does admit it. And he never lets it limit him, but …

But that's a lot of Way - fingers and cock and spit and _yeah, Frankie, fuck_ \- pushing into what there is of Frank. Just, like, volumetrically -

'Yeah, yeah, okay Frank, hey, gimme a sec, okay, I just wanna be sure - Gerard is panting.

Frank realise he's been saying 'fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_ ' under his breath and doesn't know how long he's been doing it for. He peels his eyes open and Mikey underneath him looks like he's having a religious experience - like, specifically, an exorcism. There's a smear of red over his bottom lip where he's worried the chapped corner of it til it opened up, his eyes are scrunched up shut and he's shuddering minutely, panting and groaning. 

Frank manages to lean all his weight on one arm so he can touch Mikey's pretty fucking face. 'Hey, Mikes,' he says, 'y'okay?'

His voice is rough - he _feels_ rough, three-day-bender rough, or five hundred miles in a van with no rest-stops rough, or sleep-deprived basement show stage-dive rough - but it's so fucking good being this overwhelmed.

Mikey huffs a strained thing that's something like a laugh and says, 'too okay.' He reaches up and grabs Frank's hair and pulls him down and at the same time, when Mikey's fucking his tongue into Frank's mouth like they're both about to die, Gerard pulls his fingers free and takes hold of Frank _by the fucking wing_ and pulls.

All of a sudden Frank's back on that fucking precipice again and both of the Ways know it. Gerard's smirk slides against the sweaty skin of Frank's neck and he tugs, he -

'Mother _fuck_ \- Gee, I -'

Gerard's pulling harder at him, torqueing Frank til he's knotted in place by his own sinews, and pushing the head of his cock, steadied by his other hand, into Frank's ass where Mikey's already wedging him as wide as he's ever gone before. 

'That's it, Frank,' he pants, sounding lit-up and predatory, the good kind, the sexy kind, the way he sounds when he prowls around the stage and yells at kids that he's not wearing any fucking underwear and they shouldn't ever let someone take advantage of them all at the same time. 'Better than a hand on your cock, isn't it - you like this, this fucking does it for you big time, doesn't it -' and Frank can feel Gerard's hand move as he lets go of his dick and starts to fuck properly. 

Mikey makes a noise like the apocalypse is coming and he can't fucking wait. Frank's elbows have given out, though, so part of that might be from Frank collapsing on him.

Gerard's pulling Frank's wing and fucking him like it's a race and he's gonna win even if he has to kneecap every other competitor, and Frank's so close, he's so fucking close, he's dripping wet and he's sobbing every breath into Mikey's neck and Mikey's fingers are dug like thorns into his hip - he's so _close_ he just needs it to -

'Harder,' he whines breathlessly, 'Harder, fuck you, harder, _harder_ \- because he just needs it to. To _hurt._ Just a little more?

Gerard scrunches his fist tight in Frank's feathers and _yanks_ Frank back onto his cock at the same time as Mikey bucks under him like a bronco.

And Frank fucking whites out, and that's all she wrote. 

***

It's dark on the bus when he wakes up, and someone is gently dragging their fingertips over his new backpiece. People molest Frank's tattoos all the time, he's used to it, he likes it, so he kinda purrs into it for a second and then realises two things. 

One, that ink is barely three days old, it's supposed to be gross and sore and need ointment right now, and be _covered_ , shit - and two, what the fuck, where are his wings?

'I think they, like, went away when you relaxed,' says Gerard softly in his ear.

Frank reaches a hand up behind his back awkwardly to pat at where he should either have fucking inconvenient extra limbs, or hot, sore, raised lines … but it just feels like skin. 'Is the tatt still there?' he asks.

'Yeah,' says Gerard. His fingers are running round a pattern that Frank now recognises as the outlines of the feathers as he remembers the artist inking them into him. 'All healed up. Fucking gorgeous, Frank.'

A mouth finds its way to Frank's other shoulder - Mikey, in the gloom, wrapped around Frank's side like an octopus, naked and warm and skinny. 'Shut up and sleep,' he says, against Frank's skin, halfway to a kiss. 

Gerard meets Frank's eyes with a brotherly eyeroll, but they do. Shut up and sleep, that is.

***

'I don't get it, though,' says Ray the next day, eyeballing Frank's back. 'Don't these things usually happen to, like, teach you a moral lesson or something?'

'That's what Pete said,' says Brian, shrugging. 

Frank rolls his eyes and shrugs his shirt back over his head, covering back up. 'Maybe _Pete_ needs moral lessons?'

'And you don't?'

'Frank doesn't need moral lessons, he needs to learn his actions have consequences, that's all,' says Bob, wandering past on the way to the coffee machine.

Brian sits up a little straighter all of a sudden and squints at Bob's back. 'You didn't,' he says.

Bob pours a mug of coffee, turns back around, and heads past them again towards the door without saying a word, but he smirks at Brian as he passes. 

'Didn't what?' Frank asks. 'Brian? What didn't he do?'

'You promised you wouldn't do that shit any more!' Brian chases Bob off the bus, leaving Ray, Frank, and the still semi-comatose Ways blinking in their wake. 

***

Frank eventually learns to control the wings. They come in handy, particularly for like, stage dive situations of the genuinely accidental kind, ill-advised adventures on Bob's riser, and other perils of Being On Tour With A Band So Kickass You Can't Control Yourself.

Somehow, Gerard convinces the press they're prosthetic. My Chem win the 2005 VMA for Best Visual Effects mostly because Marc's response to finding out Frank's little secret was to literally get an extra to hurl him off a ten foot wall of amplifiers in the name of cinematography or some shit. Fucking directors. 

Bob, naturally, claims that all of this counts as using his Hell-given powers for good.


End file.
